“You remember me?” said the Saint, with a slight floating sensation. “I’m the Saint.”
“Yes,” said Mr Groom patiently. “I visualise you with a moustache. Get one started right away, won’t you? Thanks.”
He waved a limp hand and drifted away, preoccupied with many responsibilities.
Eventually Simon found his way back to Byron Ufferlitz’s outer office, where Peggy Warden looked up from a clatter of typewriting with her fresh friendly smile.
“Well,” she said cheerfully, “did you meet everybody?”
“I don’t know,” said the Saint. “But if there are any more of them, I’ll wait till tomorrow. I don’t want to spoil the flavor by being gluttonous. The Wardrobe Department will probably want to check the cut of my jockstrap, and I expect the Prop Department will tell me what sort of gun I prefer.”
“We’ll find out about that as soon as we make the breakdowns.”
“That’s a cheering thought,” Simon murmured. “I’ll be the easiest breakdown you ever saw.”
“Is there anything I could do to make you happy?”
“Yes. Tell me what you’re doing tonight?”